


The Value of Transparency

by AMarguerite



Series: A Passion for the Absolute [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:41:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMarguerite/pseuds/AMarguerite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlet from my 'A Passion for the Absolute' universe. Courfeyrac injures himself while trying to use a printing press and Enjolras makes him feel better. (Er, Courfeyrac/Enjolras, if you didn't pick up on that.) Apologies for the terrible title, my mind just went blank.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Value of Transparency

"Damn!  _DamndamndamndamndamndamnDAMN_!"

Enjolras had been pinning up news sheets on the line his land-lady normally reserved for laundry, a task too pain-staking to be relegated to Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac had instead been given the supposedly less dangerous task of manning their small printing press. Enjolras had not taken into account that Courfeyrac and Lesgles had switched luck that evening. "What's happened, Courfeyrac?"

"Lack of sleep, not abundance of alcohol," Courfeyrac explained, shaking out his hand. "I mean, that's the reason I got my fingers caught in the press. I'm not usually so clumsy; I have all the grace of..." He paused, in search of an appropriate metaphor.

"A new-born kitten?" Enjolras asked dryly.

"Hopefully I am as charming as one to make up for it," Courfeyrac quipped, holding his hand out in response to Enjolras's concerned look.

Enjolras loosely clasped Courfeyrac's wrist and examined his hand. There were a few black spots which, after Enjolras touched them, turned out to be ink. Enjolras wiped off the spots with his shirtsleeve and saw nothing more amiss than a red and swollen index finger. He reported this briefly to Courfeyrac, who had been pulling all sorts of faces.

"But it  _hurts_ ," Courfeyrac said petulantly.

"You did just slam a large block of granite onto it." Enjolras turned over Courfeyrac's hand gently. The nail seemed fine, though the knuckle was red.

"I am in such torment," Courfeyrac said pitifully.

As if he had injured his own finger, Enjolras absent-mindedly stuck Courfeyrac's finger in his mouth and soothed the injured area with his tongue.

Enjolras had vaguely suspected this would get Courfeyrac to quiet down at once, and he was not surprised to be right, or even to see Courfeyrac's smile. A feeling of overpowering tenderness which was now becoming familiar to him swept over Enjolras, making him suddenly aware of details he always noted, but filed away for later inspection. Courfeyrac's green eyes always seemed warmer when he smiled, if that was at all possible, and his whole face was transformed. Courfeyrac's smile had a quality of cheerful and eternal reassurance to it, as if he found the viewer delightful in every way imaginable, believing in the viewer as the viewer would like to believe in him or herself.

Whenever he was with Enjolras that smile would appear more tender, as if he loved anyone who saw him as much as they had always dreamed of being loved; perhaps because of his general air of contentment or the way he leaned toward Enjolras as a sunflower to the sun. That happiness, that love reflected back to him sometimes bewildered Enjolras, who had never encountered it before. In himself alone it was disquieting, in Courfeyrac, who was so fundamentally honest he could never hide what he was feeling, it was reassuring in a way that sometimes felt overwhelming.

Today, however, there were dark smudges under Courfeyrac's eyes and Enjolras found himself suddenly wondering if Courfeyrac had been a red-head as a child. Courfeyrac seemed, in that moment, to have the transparency of a red-head's complexion. Or perhaps it was Courfeyrac's singular inability to hide his affection; he was a Romantic, he rejected false shows. If he loved, he loved unreservedly, and was happy to show it in every smile, every glance.

"I am feeling much better already," said Courfeyrac, with an impudent air. "The blood is flowing somewhere else entirely."

Admitting the wish, but not the expectation, Enjolras removed Courfeyrac's finger and said, "We might retire for the evening."

Enjolras's fingers were still loose around Courfeyrac's wrist; Courfeyrac lifted his wrist and kissed Enjolras's hand, an odd and whimsical touch perhaps, but with real affection behind it. With a smile that returned Enjolras's desire: "I think we should put the issue to bed, and follow its wise example ourselves."


End file.
